The Gleneagles hotel and golfing resort has taken on a mythology in my mind, especially since it hosted the 2005 G8 summit. President Bush was famously cycling in the grounds there one morning when he crashed into a policeman and broke the man's ankle.

"Bush is such an idiot," I thought upon hearing the news. "I bet the cycle paths up there are great."

When it comes to the posh, my feelings are dichotomous: I don't really like them, but I do like their stuff. Gleneagles is full of exciting pursuits for the wealthier family that I never imagined us Ronsons doing, like falconry and off-road driving and air rifle shooting. There are also the three world-class golf courses, which I'm not interested in.

It turns out that Gleneagles isn't quite as expensive as you might think. In fact from April 1-5, you can stay from £195 B&B. We spent four nights there at the end of February.

Things start badly. The night before arriving, I'm struck down with gastric flu. I spend Saturday night vomiting my head off at the Balmoral Hotel in Edinburgh. On Sunday morning, exhausted and aching and delirious with the fever, we take the train to Gleneagles. It is filled with drunken football fans. Around Falkirk I drift off. As my eyes roll upwards into my sockets, someone punches me hard on my shoulder.

"Waaaah?" I yell, waking up with a start. I see a football fan making his way up the aisle away from me.

"That man just punched my shoulder," I tell my wife, Elaine.

"Oh, he probably thought it was the side of the chair," Elaine replies, instantly taking the man's side.

"He knew what he was doing," I mutter. "He knew."

I suspect that Gleneagles is how Scotland likes to see itself - all heather-covered rolling hills and haggis and neeps and fishing and golf, whereas that man whacking me is how Scotland can actually sometimes be: less romantic.

I don't remember much about Sunday at Gleneagles. My gastric flu is overwhelming and I don't leave the room. In my semi-conscious haze, though, I can still appreciate its luxury. We're in the modern block, where the curtains and fire are activated by remote control and the bathroom floor is heated from beneath, which is a nice touch for the vomiting gentleman. Every so often Elaine and my son Joel burst into the room and say, "We've been doing pitch and putt! It's brilliant!" And, "Oh, we've just had a lovely supper in the Strathearn."

On Monday, I manage a short, convalescing walk in the beautiful grounds, among the mazes and tennis courts and cycle paths. Gleneagles seems an appropriate place to recuperate because the building's exterior resembles a sanatorium - quite severe and no-nonsense. The walls are grey and austere. The Caledonian railway company built it in 1910, and in fact it also looks like a giant railway station, plonked in the middle of a field. Not that there's anything wrong with that: railway stations can be grand, romantic places. Gleneagles is grand and romantic once you're inside, especially now they're redecorating the public areas in a deco, rather than Victorian, style. It may be huge, but it isn't stuffy. It is relaxing.

By Tuesday, I'm back to full strength. I feel reborn. We make up for lost time by packing the days with swimming, pitch and putt and junior off-road driving in a tiny Land Rover.

Duncan is a little hectoring, but it is still a lot of fun. Duncan is also our falconry instructor, and is engagingly no-nonsense when it comes to recounting the power of the falcon.

"They can squeeze 400lbs per square inch," he says. "They can do a lot of damage to whatever they're squeezing."

"Can he turn his head all the way round?" Joel asks.

"No, that would be physically impossible," replies Duncan.

"Wouldn't it be fun if you trained one to land on your hat instead of your arm!" I say.

"No," says Duncan, "because then they'd indiscriminately land on people's heads including people playing tennis."

"It was just an idea," I murmur.

"It was a stupid, idiotic thing to say," mutters Elaine.

We take it in turns to have the falcon land on our arms. It really is an inspiring, exciting hour - human and powerful, delicate bird, coming together, on our sleeves.

Breakfasts and dinners in the comfortable Strathearn restaurant are delicious, especially the big roasts they carve at your table. Although they do have a tendency to fuss around you, like most posh places do, scrutinising your glass of water with eagle eyes and rushing over to refill it when you've taken a tiny sip. Still, the Strathearn is the kind of restaurant you really don't want to leave. You can sit there for hours, feeling at home.

We'd hoped to have dinner at the two Michelin-starred Andrew Fairlie restaurant, but it was all booked up. On Tuesday night, we ask the maître d' if we can poke our heads round the door, but she says no.

"It's a small restaurant and our guests have expressed their desire to not be disturbed by people coming in while they're eating," she explains. "But you're welcome to look through the peep-hole in the door."

And so we do. "Ooh!" we say, glimpsing faraway diners undertaking their sacred dinner eating undisturbed.

Not everything is perfect - and most of the failings can be found in the spa area and its adjacent Club restaurant.

"The calamari tastes like it's been cooked in pizza dough," mutters Elaine. "And look at the spa. It looks like a sports centre in Cumbernauld."

Elaine is a good person to review hotels with because she notices bad things that other people don't notice. But in this case she is obviously right. The spa is bad. The Turkish baths are functional and concrete, built at a time (probably the 1970s) when the concept of pampering was considered the height of mystifying overindulgence in Scotland. There's a nice outdoor hot tub, but it is a bit too small and over-heated and situated amid a muddy, pebble-dashy corner of the resort to be truly relaxing.

Gleneagles does have a tendency towards capped fun. Take the word-search on the back of the children's menu in the Club restaurant. Usually the hidden words to be found inside word-searches are enchanting. They're words like "princess" or "knight". Here at Gleneagles the list of hidden words includes "refuge", "hurts", "hoes" and "itch". What the hell is that all about? Talk about an upsetting word-search!

This penchant for limited enjoyment stretches to the cycle hire desk next to the spa. On Wednesday, we ask if we can borrow bikes.

"We'll need them back in 90 minutes," says the woman.

I look over at the rows of unbooked bicycles. "But ..." I say.

"It's our rule," she says, severely. "Ninety minutes is all you have."

And so we furiously cycle, forever looking at our watches. The PGA golf course is closed for repairs, and so we cycle around it. And it is great, with exhilarating views across the rolling hills of Gleneagles and Glenmor, their new holiday village. On a clear day I swear you can see all the way to Glengarry Glen Ross.

I've now recounted every bad thing about Gleneagles. And I suppose the criticisms don't amount to much. Everything else is fantastic. On our last day, Joel and I go shooting. A ruddy-faced outdoorsman called Jim picks us up in a Land Rover and takes us to a low hut in Gleneagles outlying regions. I've never shot before. As a pacifist and a cosmopolitan liberal, I'm theoretically against it.

"This is a 22-calibre semi-automatic rifle," says Jim, handing us our impressive-looking guns. "Manufactured by Weinrauch. Germans make the greatest weapons in the world."

Jim teaches us how to load our air rifles with a magazine filled with 14 shiny pellets. Metal targets in the shape of bunnies, squirrels, crows and rats await us in the field. Joel and I take aim. And we fire.

I love it. I feel alive and omnipotent. I am born to shoot. It makes me feel (in the words of Homer Simpson) like God would feel if He were holding a gun.

"Who will feel my wrath?" I think, peering through my telescopic sight, moving between the squirrel and the bunny target. I decree that the bunny will die, and I squeeze my trigger and with a satisfying clang it falls. Joel feels the same way. It is enormous fun. And great value for money too: £25 each for an hour's shooting. Compare that with the minute you get for £2.50 in a crappy funfair. Also, at a funfair, you don't get a teacher as good fun as Jim is.

"When I heard we were hosting G8," Jim says. "I thought I could take Bush and Blair fishing. But a few weeks before they arrived, we were told by their security, 'Shut everything down! The fishing, the shooting, everything!' I said to them, 'Who ever tried to kill a President with an air rifle?' I mean! Bloody hell!"

The shooting is our final, and favourite, pursuit. Then it's time to pay and leave. We catch the train back through Falkirk, and this time I'm not assaulted by drunks.

Gleneagles seems to be in a bit of a transition period between old-fashioned severe Scottish Presbyterian opulence - Jim says 30 years ago Gleneagles' staff would look on horrified at children running around - and lovely, relaxed, modern, Butlins-for-the-rich style fun. It won't be long before the place is just perfect.

Way to go

Where to stay

From April 1-5, The Gleneagles Hotel (0800 3893737, gleneagles.com) has special offer with rooms available from £195 per night B&B. The standard rate is £295. In the suites (from £350 per night) under 5s (max two) stay free.